


The Murmuring Sea

by AdmirableMonster (Mertiya)



Series: Kanó- and Nelyo and -Káno [13]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dreams and Nightmares, Hurt/Comfort, Maglor is not allowed to be a sad beach cryptid forever, Maglor just needs a hug okay, Memories, Other, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sharing a Bed, relationship doesn't have to be read as romantic, though i was writing it with a romance slant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-12
Updated: 2020-09-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:34:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26414983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mertiya/pseuds/AdmirableMonster
Summary: Maglor meets someone who isn't afraid of him and remembers what it's like to be treated as a person.
Relationships: Maglor | Makalaurë/Maglor's Spouse
Series: Kanó- and Nelyo and -Káno [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1995166
Comments: 20
Kudos: 56





	The Murmuring Sea

**Author's Note:**

> it's just...comfort maglor hours out here
> 
> just give my sad boy some softs. also i haven't really done an OC in a major relationship before so uh...hope you like them?
> 
> title from the lay of leithian

There is always a next step. Maglor has been repeating this to himself for hundreds of years at this point. It kept him moving when Maedhros was taken to Angband and Maglor found himself unexpectedly in the role of leader, which he was never comfortable with. It kept him moving when Fingon brought a nearly-comatose Maedhros _back_ from Angband, and Maglor had to watch the pain his oldest brother was in, and the agonizingly slow process that was his healing. But Maedhros did heal, and Maglor kept looking for the next step as he watched his brother returned to him, day after day.

_There is always a next step._ It was the only thing that kept him moving after Nirnaeth Arnoediad, when the light in Nelyo’s eyes died permanently, when the last remnants of kind, beautiful, proud Maitimo vanished utterly without a trace. When Maglor and Maedhros waded through blood and watched their brothers cough up blood and die in the halls of Doriath, there was a next step. When they committed the most unforgivable acts yet, at Sirion, and Maglor held two parentless children sobbing in his arms—there was a next step. The children had to be cared for. That laid out many, many next steps to be taken, one after another. 

So now, there must be another next step. The Silmaril lies burning in the palm of his hand; the agony is undeniable, and he has just had a screaming argument with his older brother, but all he has to do is figure out what the next step is, and the rest of them will be a problem for the future. Next step. Next step. He’ll have to go back to Maedhros. In this kind of pain, in this kind of despair, it’s no wonder they’re screaming at each other, but they’re all each other has now. They can’t go back to Elros and Elrond. But he has Maedhros, and he has his next step. What’s a little more blinding agony?

“Nelyo!” he calls out, searching for Maedhros’s figure—never exactly difficult to find his brother, considering that some trees are shorter. And the flat, broad, black expanse of the shore here isn’t covered with many trees. It takes him only half a moment to find Maedhros standing, loosely, head bowed forward, and Maglor hurries towards him.

Maedhros startles a little at the sound of his voice, head turning slowly towards Maglor. He looks inexpressibly weary, his mobile, battle-ravaged face moving in a strange way, as if the different pieces don’t quite fit. His eyes open as he sees Maglor, and he sighs and shakes his head. He tips his chin back and up, rolling his shoulders as if he’s stretching, his muscles relaxed, as if he isn’t conscious of the pain of his hand shut around the blinding white gem. There’s something here that—Maglor doesn’t quite understand. He looks almost like Maitimo again, his eyes clear and unclouded, as if everything is _simple_ —

“Nelyo?”

And Maedhros takes his next step.

And disappears.

It’s so dream-like that Maglor doesn’t quite…understand. Where his brother stood there isn’t…anything? He blinks and shakes his head. The pain aches in waves up through his arm, but he cannot stop it by standing here, so he hurries forward to the edge of the crevasse he could not see from where he stood before—the heat stops him before he can even reach the place where his brother was standing. The fire—the heat— _Nelyo—_

Maglor coughs and coughs, his shoulders shaking, the agony of the Silmaril burning as the heat of the fire below burns, but it is nothing to what the burning would have been if he had fallen, like his brother fell—like his brother _dove_ —leaving him alone.

Alone. Seven sons of Fëanor began, and only one remains. Maglor is on his knees against the hot earth. In his head, a silly Mannish children’s rhyme plays and keeps playing over and over again, _seven little soldiers chopping up sticks—one chopped himself in half and then there were six—four little soldiers going out to sea—two little soldiers—sitting—in the sun—the sun burned one all up—and then—there was—one—one little soldier—left all alone—_

All alone. He is all alone.

Hands on Maglor’s shoulders. He gasped and opened his eyes into sudden darkness. The pain of the Silmaril pulsed once and vanished into the dream-memory from which it had come. “Lindir?” said a soft, concerned voice. In the pale starlight, he saw Nen’s freckled, sun-kissed face looking at him with sleepy bewilderment.

“You’re crying,” they told him. “I think you were having a nightmare.”

Nen. The first living being in centuries—or maybe more—who had managed an actual conversation with Maglor. Probably because he hadn’t been paying enough attention in his recent wandering and had apparently managed to give them an entire impromptu concert without noticing it. Perhaps not so surprising—Nen was surprisingly stealthy for one of their kind. The first Maglor had noticed them had been because they had called out to him from their fishing boat, wanting to know if he’d like some fish in payment for his beautiful song. Maglor had fled instantly.

He hadn’t thought much of it, except as an unusual occurrence set against a backdrop of quiet sorrow. Except then he had run into them _again_ —and this time he thought they were waiting for him. They’d set up a little fire on the beach, and the smell of freshly roasted fish had drawn Maglor towards them almost against his will. They’d grinned at him in a friendly sort of way and offered him a seat, but they hadn’t pushed. They hadn’t seemed awed or afraid or anything he would have expected.

So Maglor had sat. And Nen had talked to him, chatting cheerfully about their three cats and the way the weather had been changing recently, and told him all about fish runs and nets and knots. Things he hadn’t really thought of at all and wouldn’t have been particularly interested in, except that they were—normal topics of conversation. He was, he realized, being treated like a _person_.

“Come back anytime,” Nen told him gently as he finished up his meal, and their cornflower-blue eyes crinkled at the corners.

He hadn’t planned to come back. He didn’t deserve such kindness. And yet—and yet—they had offered. No one else had offered. When he saw their little fishing boat cutting through the waves a few days later, he’d gone to the shore and waited for them, singing up sunlight and smooth waves.

“Why ‘Nen’?” he had asked when they returned. His voice was rusty and hoarse, and he wondered how much his singing had suffered. He couldn’t tell.

They shrugged. “What’s your name?” they asked.

“Lindir.”

They’d laughed in a snorting kind of way. Maglor’s heart twisted strangely at the normalcy of it. “All right then, _Song Man_.” They translated his name into Westron with an amused tilt of their head. “Then don’t judge me for ‘ocean.’”

It was a month after Maglor had met them that they had finally tempted him back to their little hut, and a storm had come up and they wouldn’t let him leave in it. “If you do, I’m going to come too,” they’d told him firmly, and Maglor couldn’t stand the thought of drawing someone to do something so foolish (and what would he have said if the twins were insisting on going out in such a storm?), which was how he had ended up tucked next to them in their little bed, and here he was, next to them, with those concerned blue eyes looking at him with the greatest care and kindness.

Maglor sobbed a little and pressed his face into the pillow they’d given him. “There now,” Nen said. Then, after a pause, “May I touch you?”

He nodded jerkily, and they laid a callused hand in his hair. “It’s all right. It was just a nightmare.”

“I’m sorry,” Maglor murmured, and they pulled him closer. He hid his face in their shoulder, wondering how he could.

“You’ve had to be strong for a long time, haven’t you?”

There was an aching pain in his throat, and his eyes were stinging. “I…perhaps. But…”

“That’s all it is, then.” There was a hand rubbing strong circles across the center of his back. “You’re all right to cry, you know.” There was a soft, plaintive noise, and a small body landed near Maglor’s head, nearly making him jerk back before he realized it was just one of the cats.

“Why are you being so kind?” Maglor asked softly.

They tucked themself in closer to him. “I’ve seen plenty of people with sorrows,” they told him. “I’ve had a quiet life myself, so I like to help out where I can. Besides,” they reddened slightly, “you have a beautiful voice, and I enjoy spending time with you.”

Maglor went quiet for a moment after that. “Thank you,” he said softly, then reached out and took their hand so he could interlace their fingers with his. “You’ve been…” he stumbled a little. “I enjoy spending time with you, too.”

Nen hummed a little and drew him closer. “Go back to sleep, Song Man.”

He laughed softly and curled up on his side. A soft tail swished over his nose, and Nen cuddled up to his back, putting one arm across his chest. “Is this all right?”

“Please,” Maglor said, and then he was crying, just a little, tears slipping out easily and almost painlessly.

“There now,” Nen said again. “Shhh. You’re all right. The world will look brighter in the morning.”

_You’re all right, Nelyo. The world will look brighter in the morning_. He did believe them, though. Maglor let himself sob a little more, and Nen held him and didn’t let go. 


End file.
